


our singing hearts

by Taste_of_Suburbia



Category: Murder on the Orient Express (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Celebratory Kiss, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Goodbyes, Hugs, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Promises, Romance, Trope Bingo Round 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 16:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18720838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_of_Suburbia/pseuds/Taste_of_Suburbia
Summary: Poirot had not loved… for such a verylongtime.





	our singing hearts

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill on my Trope Bingo [card](https://immolate-the-silence.dreamwidth.org/30129.html) for Celebratory Kiss. 
> 
> Set at the end of the film before Poirot leaves the Orient Express. I have been in love with these two characters ever since the film and in love with these two actors for far longer than that. After hearing that Tom will be joining Ken in Death on the Nile, I decided to finally sit down and write these two. The author regrets nothing, or rather, the author regrets everything and cowers in shame in her little corner.

 

Bouc’s kisses were fevered and frantic, Poirot treasuring each one despite how quickly they came before he cupped Bouc’s cheek gently in his palm, effectively stilling him. Sense seemed to rush back to his friend as immediately as precious oxygen did. His small, panting breaths were warm and welcome against Poirot’s own chilled cheeks as they rested their foreheads together.

With his other hand Poirot cupped Bouc’s elbow, intent on keeping him close. During their last few minutes together, Bouc had alternated between lightly grasping and clutching for dear life Poirot’s cloak. It was as if he feared holding onto the older man too tight, that he would only have himself to blame for such a loss in the end.

“Mon cher, we will see each other again,” Poirot reassured softly though no less meaningfully. Bouc nodded vigorously, trying to calm and no doubt assure himself, eyes shutting in his own failing as he pressed further against Poirot. His friend was every ounce a mess: flushed cheeks, teeth fretting at his lower lip, ragged breaths that dimmed in intensity though never quieted. While Poirot was never keen on beholding such inner chaos and outward disorder, he found that in Bouc it excited him, and maybe it was because his friend was flustered _because_ of his presence.

It had never sat quite right in Poirot to hide such affection from his long-time friend. He had kept it to a minimum prior to their perhaps _destined_ reunion, but now that the murder had been solved and the detective’s heart was, indeed, almost too heavy to carry within him, he saw no sense in preventing further truths from being disclosed.

Poirot had taken the plunge, as they said, despite fearing that Bouc would reject that truth. No, he would _never_ reject Poirot, but it was in his power and right to shy away from him. Poirot was, after all, quite an old man, especially when placed beside the far younger director of the Orient Express, but he had found that he had just as much life in him as the younger man and, dare he admit it, just as much _passion._ Even more so, he wanted to share a great deal of that eagerness to live life to the fullest with Bouc.

Or was it merely a distraction from the weariness of Poirot’s mind, the heavy burden of betrayal and yet resignation holding captive his heart?

He had chosen the only course he believed he could endure and yet… there was this horrible knowledge that withstanding this torment of conscience would persist in plaguing him through many years to come. Bouc had understood this from the raw pain in his eyes and the guilty set of his mouth; the manner in which he tried and failed to hold himself perfectly straight, often lingering in doorways and setting himself even more firmly into every available background; the way he averted his gaze constantly from Poirot as if the detective himself desired that. All of this until Poirot had put a stop to it, realizing that he put no ounce of blame in his dear friend, understanding that Bouc’s peace of mind was no burden for him and that his needs were no more a distraction than Poirot’s own.

No distractions or lies or temporary acts of desperation, merely clarity of mind and fulfillment of purpose and perhaps some lust for life. He did _treasure_ Bouc, maybe a bit more now after having just been on the receiving end of his affection, but not much more so than in any of the other moments they had shared throughout the years. Poirot’s heart had alighted with surprising adoration and fire when he had seen Bouc again, a hug the only justifiable course of action in which he could get his hands on his dear, _dear_ friend.

And Bouc’s wide, delighted and welcoming smile as he sung Poirot’s praises had rapidly increased the beating of the detective’s heart.

“And yet…,” Bouc paused, eyes fluttering open beautifully, worrying away at his lip again. Poirot tutted at him and ran a thumb over those reddened lips, causing Bouc to stutter and smile bashfully yet continue with more certainty than before. “And yet I fear our paths will not cross for years. I hold no claim to you, I know, I could never ask such a thing of you.”

Poirot rested a hand gently over that quivering mouth. “I will send for you. When the time is right. It may be months, mon ami, though not _years.”_

Bold words and dangerous promises, Poirot warned himself even though it was far too late. From the very moment his mouth had been sealed with Bouc’s, it had been too late to turn back. But maybe, on the verge of indulging himself in his next mystery, he could afford a bit _more_ risk in his life.

Moreover, Poirot had not loved… for such a very _long_ time.

His friend’s hopeful, gratified smile made it all the more worthwhile to feel that spark of youth again, innocence and eagerness and tranquility and such ardent affection that Poirot could not help but crush Bouc against him, breathing him in to prepare himself for the many lonely nights to come until Bouc would be returned to him.

Bouc’s long and loving arms wrapped around him as well, words whispered desperately in his ear. “Send word when you can, Poirot. Even if it’s just to inform me how the latest case is going.” He chuckled, high-pitched with nervousness and anticipation.

Poirot splayed a hand on the back of his head, pressing a series of kisses into the crook of his dear Bouc’s neck. “Mon Bouc, your heart is racing. You flatter an old man so. I do not deserve your good graces nor your attentions.”

At that Bouc was the first to pull away and yet his hands rested on Poirot’s shoulders, his words a fierce and protective balm to Poirot’s aching heart. “You deserve all that and more, my dear Poirot. You have been the noblest friend I have ever known, preserving my reputation when I had no right to ask you for such a thing on your _vacation_ no less. You will forgive me for such infringement on your time and privacy? And for stealing you away from your Dickens?”

Hands framed the young man’s face on pure instinct of heart, tears welling in old and tired, though no less appreciative eyes. “Nothing is to be forgiven, mon ami. It is I who would have wronged you if I had not come to my senses. It is _fate_ which has brought us together again.”

“Not just luck?” A playful quirk of the lips.

Poirot followed. “Perhaps a little added in for good measure.”

Bouc laughed so loudly and with such enthusiasm that it seemed to rock the Orient Express on its very tracks. “Then we are merely pawns of the universe and are doomed to reunite until we agree to play by its rules.”

The detective bowed to the universe’s intentions, as well as Bouc’s. “It is so then. And yes, mon cher, I will write as often as my cases allow me. These hands will begin to wither at your absence.”

“As will mine.”

Small, affectionate kisses now as their hands did most of the speaking, grasping and clutching and trembling but _sure_ , sure that this would not be the end, only a mere parting. Poirot had a new mystery to preoccupy his little gray cells now, in the very Nile no less, yet when things were sufficiently settled and prepared he would send for Bouc.

Even so, while his mind would be consumed by the impending work, his heart would dutifully remain with Bouc, plagued by and pleasured with dreams of pressing kisses into his skin and breathing in the life and joy and vitality of the younger man.

His mustaches tingled with excitement at the very thought.

And their last kiss, a celebration that Poirot need never come back to the Orient Express to further burden his heart when his most troubling decision had already been made, a celebration of their very union as a reward for years of friendship, Poirot poured every last piece of his heart into and _infinitely_ more.

**FIN**

 

 


End file.
